Max Payne 3
by Phalanx05
Summary: My take on the third saga of the Max Payne series
1. Prologue

For the first moment of my life, everything had grown clear in the dull presence of my mind. The once steady pulse of a nightmare never ending had all abruptly ended with the death of a woman. A woman I might so daringly have called my lover. Funny how ironic life is; the death of the people closest to you is the only help for a mind plagued with guilt.  
The demise of Vladimir Lem also helped to erase the demons waging war in my brain. I had once been foolish enough to call this man a friend. No, it wasn't foolishness that had brought us together and broke us apart in one fail swoop. As Vlad would have put it; "It was only business."  
But that wasn't truth either, was it? Behind every deal conducted in business has the stinking rot of hidden agendas just below the surface. The truth is, everything is personal. The whacking of Vinnie Cognitti, while still helping to secure Vlad's position as an underworld boss, could not mask the fact of Vlad's hatred for Vinnie. We are all businessmen of sorts, and to go about our business without personal desire is a man with a gun to his head waiting for the trigger to be pulled.  
Life is what you make it, and I'm no exception. Everything I've done in my life has shaped the events up to present. If you had asked me five years ago, I would have told you that nothing in my life was controllable. Ask me now, and I might tell you something a little bit closer to the truth. While not even your tears can change the past, you can act upon those events and thereby change the future to your favor. Just be prepared to suffer the consequences if the choice you make is the wrong one.  
I killed Winterson. As corrupt as she had become under the influence of Vlad, it still didn't make a difference. I was a cop killer in the eyes of the jury. Not fit for any sort of remorse at all. Most of the evidence incriminating Winterson and freeing myself had been destroyed in the fires. What little had been brought to court apparently wasn't enough to convince the jury, so I was told. Rumors of the jury being paid off by an outside force also rang clear in my head. It seems that the old "Godfather" ideals weren't so far-fetched as they once seemed; the higher up in power you found yourself, the more corrupt everything and everyone becomes.  
I was caught, a rabbit crushed under the snare of a hunter. And this time, there was no one to pull the strings for my freedom. Senator Woden was dead. The only man capable of rescuing me from the snarling bite of the hound had been murdered by Vlad in a last ditch effort to secure power in the mob underworld. It was of no matter now; I shouldn't concern myself with things beyond my control. My only concern these past weeks have been beating the system I once upheld. But when you find the cards stacked against you, the dream of freedom becomes more a passing whim of thought. Still I had to try.  
So that had become my consuming thought: getting free. My lawyers tried to assure me of the best, but I didn't buy it for a moment. There's no way a cop-killer can get off on his own accord, and they knew it perfectly well. Why they kept the fact of my certain prosecution was still a mystery to me at this moment; maybe they saw through all of the bullshit and were telling themselves that they could get me off. Or maybe they were just raising my spirits so it would make my downfall in court that much more savoring. It really didn't matter, like I said. My goose was cooked; I was prepared to face whatever consequences handed out to me by the jury. Well, that is until I got some very unexpected news. As I've said many times in the past: "It all started with the death of a woman." 


	2. Chapter 1

I must warn you guys, this is my first draft of the chapter. I was so eager to continue the story, I figured I'd at east see if you guys enjoyed it. Please let me know any typos or anything that you'd like approved upon. Thanks  
  
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Ibanez was speaking again, and to the untrained eye, it would seem as if he actually knew what the hell he was talking about. Fortunately for me, I knew much better than to buy into this crock of bull he was spoon feeding me. I had to give him credit though, he was good. He could convince a man that the devil was at his doorstep and the only chance of salvation was to pay him fifteen grand up front and another twelve after the whole ordeal was over. He had even managed to keep his connections to the Russian mafia a secret from the judge in order to snag the spot as head defense attorney. Intuition told me the reason he had bothered defending me was that there was a contract out on my head. Not everyone in the underworld had been happy to see Vladimir Lem go, and Russians don't let vendettas go very easily, trust me, I know from past experience. So when and if the hit on me fails, Ibanez was there to make sure I fried in court. Keep your enemy close, it made is so much easier to bring them down in the end.  
  
"Max, we're going to get you through this, I promise," Ibanez's English was almost perfect, almost no trace of an accent at all. "Me and Jerry have got your entire defense worked out." Jerry Hart, the other attorney at my service, looked up sharply at this remark. From the surprised look on his face, obviously no such plan of attack had been formulated between them, but upon catching my questioning glance, he smiled, shrugged, and said, "Sure Max, we got you covered." I had began to take a liking to the kid. Looking as if he had just come out of law school, Jerry obviously had yet to be touched by the grip of corruption that had engulfed everyone else who had ever dared dream of greater things. His naivety would eventually be his downfall, but one could not help but admire his genuine goodness. He really wanted to help me, and I found that oddly touching.  
  
Ibanez was back to speaking, leaving Jerry to watch silently in the background, as usual. He pulled a pile of papers from a leather briefcase and handed them to me. I laid them down next to me, not bothering to read through. The first few pages were most definitely a cleverly designed defense, but after that, he had probably printed out pages from a book he had been reading and added them in to complete the trick. I had to hand it to him, he was beyond clever. Just not clever enough.  
  
"Aren't you going to read through it, Max?" Ibanez gave me a charming smile, the malice hidden carefully underneath from unsuspecting eyes. I ran my fingers over the stack of papers and then let them rest on the table.  
  
"Nah, I'm sure you two have got it all covered," I winked at Ibanez, letting the sarcasm sink in even further. If he hadn't been suspicious before of my awareness of his intentions, I'm sure to hell he was suspicious now. He gave me another one of his chilling smiles and got up from his chair across the table.  
  
"Well, gentleman, please excuse me, I have business to attend to," Ibanez gathered all of his things, laid them neatly in his briefcase, and walked over to me. "Max, a pleasure always," he gave me his best smile yet and offered a handshake. I stood up, gave him the best fake smile I could manage, and shook hands with him.  
  
"Thanks for everything Ibanez, I really appreciate what you're doing for me." The only reason I kept a smile through the entire procedure of bullshitting each other was because I was thinking how sweet it would be to wipe the smile of his face with one good punch. However, I kept my bearings and just continued to smile, getting faker and faker by the second. He smiled even brighter to match mine and let go of my hand, parting for the door. He gave a nod to Jerry and left, hightailing it out of the building. I caught his glance at the last second; he wasn't smiling anymore. The feelings are mutual, I thought, the first genuine smile of the day rising to my lips. I chuckled to myself and lit a smoke.  
  
Jerry, noticing my sudden outburst, moved to a chair next to me. He fumbled in his leather jacket pocket for a cigarette, found none. I brought out my pack and offered him my last one. He accepted it gratefully, pulling a BIC lighter out of his pockets and lit up. We sat there smoking silently, the last request of prisoners doomed to die. Ironically, that image fit the both of us.  
  
The silence was finally broken by Hart, who lifted a weary finger to the door that Ibanez had departed through earlier. He inhaled deeply on his smoke, letting the fumes exhale through his nose in a breeze of dust. He slumped slightly in his chair and looked up at me.  
  
"You really trust that guy....Ibanez?" His piercing blue eyes peered at me questioningly as the words streamed from his mouth. This question caught me completely off guard and I smiled weakly at him. Should I tell him everything? Start from the beginning and let it all spill out like a tidal wave.  
  
"Shouldn't smoke kid, that shit'll kill you," I grinned and he laughed heartily. He drew in another deep drag just for spite and winked at me.  
  
"You sound just like my mom, Max. She always used to complain about me burning holes in her nice new carpet," catching my amused query, he added, "Hey, I was a clumsy kid." We both had a good laugh at that remark. He stubbed out his cigarette and peered at me again, arms folded across his chest. "Seriously Max, that guy Ibanez has been lying to you the entire time. You know that, don't you? I mean, you seem like a very smart guy; you know how hard it is to acquit a cop-" I waved a hand and he immediately stopped, waiting for what I had to say.  
  
"Look kid..." I started, trying to find the right words to explain it to him, "How old are you?" He seemed shocked by that question, obviously not the words he had expected.  
  
"I..umm...23, sir," he managed, picking up his lighter and fidgeting with it. I laughed heartily; he managed a shy smile and let his drift away from my face, focusing instead on the lighter.  
  
"Christ, you really are nothing but a kid." A rosy hue appeared on his cheeks and he bored his attention into the lighter, lighting it and then snapping it shut immediately. "But you're obviously a very smart one to have made it this far, so f*cking fast." He looked up from his BIC and that same shy smile came to his face. I leaned over towards him and whispered: "You sure this is what you want Jerry? All this corruption and deceit? I know you're a good kid and all Jerry, but no one can remain clean forever. Look at Ibanez, I'm sure at one time he was a good, smart kid just like you, trying to food on the table for his family. Look at him now." Jerry Hart nodded, understanding everything perfectly. He drew a hand through his wavy blond hair and sighed.  
  
"I know Max...I know," He put the lighter back in his leather pocket and stood up. "It's just like the movies, ain't it Max? The higher up you go, the more corrupt it becomes, right?" I smiled sadly; he really was a smart kid, and a good one too. That was often a deadly combination.  
  
"You're right Jerry, only its ten times worse than the movies."  
  
"I want to help you Max..."  
  
"Kid," I needed another smoke. "There's no helping a guy like me. Even if I somehow get off, the Russians will certainly finish the job. Don't get into this any deeper than you already are Jerry" But Jerry just shook his head, not heeding my warning.  
  
"I want to help you Max, I really do..."  
  
God, just one smoke, to end all of this...  
  
"You can't kid."  
  
"Well...then," Jerry gathered up all his things, threw the smaller items into his briefcase that was identical to Ibanez's and buttoned up his coat. "I'll find someone who can help you."  
  
"Jerry...please." I was begging him now. That old familiar feeling had once again began to creep its way up my spine and into my brain. The feeling that the hole you had just climbed out of had grown much bigger, and you had once again fallen into it. And this time, there was no way to crawl out of it. I couldn't let this boy end up like all the others who had tried to help me. "Go home kid. Just...go home."  
  
Jerry nodded, heading to the door. He turned around and looked at me one last time. "See ya tomorrow Max." With that, he was gone, leaving me to my thoughts. I sat there, thinking about him, about Vlad and Mona, about my wife and kid. Was he doomed the same fate as they were?  
  
The same fate I was doomed to?  
  
I didn't have long to think; the door to the interrogation room opened and a husky officer stepped inside. I recognized him as Will Gregorson; we had been casual friends back when I was still in the NYPD. He was one of the few who actually believed my story, but of course he was also a good cop, so he couldn't do much more than console me. I got up from the table and walked over to Will and held out my hands so he could cuff me. It was standard procedure to cuff a prisoner so he could be taken back to his cell, but Will didn't even bother.  
  
"Max, you need to come here, now." He motioned me to follow him. Outside the interrogation room, I found in the main floor of the headquarters. Surprisingly, most of the cops were not at their usual desks; the station, once filled with a lively buzz of chatter, was now still and quiet. Gregorson led me to a corner of the office into a cubicle where a small crowd of cops had assembled. They were staring in shock silence at a small black-and-white television that had bet set up over a mess of paperwork.  
  
Jane Yamamoto, a reporter for the channel 5 newsgroup, appeared on the screen and began to speak very rapidly of a homicide that had occurred at a resident home. Jerry, it had to be Jerry, was my first thought. They got to him even faster than I expected them to. But that wasn't the name that came out of the television, and for a moment I stared at it in shocked silence.  
  
"The earliest news that we have confirmed so far is that of a single homicide, everyone else in the household were not harmed. Fortunately, we do have an eye witness who saw the killers leaving the house. They were described as masked men wearing cleaning company uniforms. The company in question is..." She paused for a second. "Ah yes, the Squeaky Cleaning Company. Police forces at this moment are checking upon the whereabouts of this company." Miss Yamamoto stood directly in front of the house that the murder had been committed. The house pictured was an extravagant, three-story Victorian-style house with twin gargoyle statues that sat on the porch. I knew that house. I had often been invited for dinner with my wife and kid right after my shift ended. "No official word on identification of the body or who the house belongs to yet, the police are trying to keep it quiet." She paused for a second, her free went up to her ear so she could listen more clearly to the report coming through. "Wait a minute, I believe we have an I.D. on the body. Yes, the body has been identified as Mrs. Mary Bravura, wife of Police Chief Jim Bravura. Ironically, Mr. Bravura was also attacked by unknown persons almost two weeks-" I couldn't listen anymore, I turned away and walked out of the cubicle, Will Gregorson close on my heels.  
  
"Max..." He called after me to no avail, I paid no heed. I sat down at my old cubicle and rested my head in my hands. Why...why now?? Why could this be happening all over again? And why to such a sweet old lady as Mrs. Bravura, she had no reason to be apart of the affairs between me and the cleaners. Maybe it doesn't have to do with you Max, maybe they did this for entirely different reasons. It didn't make a difference at all. She was still dead, and for whatever reason it may be, they still did it.  
  
The thump of rapidly approaching footsteps broke my thoughts. I looked up to see Gregorson watching me from the cubicle, his bulk resting upon the frame of the entrance. Behind him appeared another cop I didn't recognize, a cell phone resting at his ear as he listened intently. Finally, he got off and motioned to Gregorson to talk with him out of earshot of me. They stepped a few feet back from my office and began to talk swiftly. I saw Gregorson's jaw drop as he listened, a quick glance in my direction told me that this conversation had some relation to me. A few minutes later, they parted and Will came back to my cubicle, looking very solemn indeed. I said nothing, merely gazed questioningly at him. He sighed and moved over next to me, taking a seat.   
  
"More bad news Max," He looked as if I was going to strike him across the face, and I have to be honest; I was close to hitting something. "They found a tape at the crime scene. Mrs. Bravura was cradling it in her arms."  
  
"And...?" I didn't understand then what he was getting at.  
  
"Well, it hasn't been listened to all the way through yet, Max," He ran his fingers along the part in his hair, his brow perspiring heavily. "But the tape is addressed to you Max. You, and you alone."  
  
I groaned and put my face in my hands again, trying not to believe what I had been told. Will stood up and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, trying his best to comfort me.  
  
The hole had now become a void, sucking me and everyone I knew into its dark crevices. Sucking us down to our deaths.  
  
"Come on Max, we need to get you back to your cell." He let go of my shoulder and turned away. "The tape will most likely be reviewed by the NYPD and then ultimately, I'm sure it will be handed over to you."  
  
I said nothing. I simply got up and followed him down to my cell. Down to the darkness that my life had become once again. 


	3. Chapter 2

It's been a while since I picked this story up. Sorry, some things may be off from the Max Payne 2 storyline, I have forgotten a lot of what happened in the game, so please just correct me. Prolly not up to par with the first 2 chapters, but I'll make up for it in the next one!

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Jerry didn't show up the day scheduled to listen to the tape. Ibanez called his apartment several times to no avail; a black and white had even been dispatched to check up on him; no one answered. Upon entering his residence, the officers noticed nothing out of the ordinary; no sign of a struggle or quick departure. Jerry, for lack of a better explanation, had disappeared.

"Well, I guess we should at least look at it Max. No point in waiting for Mr. Hart any longer," Ibanez pulled a plastic bag out of his briefcase and held it up for me to see. It was a plain micro cassette recorder, nothing out of the ordinary in its appearance. "Forensics found no fingerprints or distinguishing marks to help us track down where it was bought. They wanted to keep it a few more days to see if the actual tape could help identify the man on the tape, but lucky enough for us, I was able to snag it for a few hours before they dissect it." He fished the recorder out of the carefully labeled bag and set it gently down on the oak table. "Ready for this Max?" Without waiting for my answer, he clicked the play button down.

The voice was definitely Russian, not that I had expected different. A Vladimir Lem incarnate. In fact, an Ibanez reincarnate sounded just as likely. Looking at him across the table, I wondered if he had anything to do with the hell that had sprung all around me. I guess only time could provide the answer to that.

"Good citizens of this fine city, it is by the demand of my employer that Max Payne be freed of all charges against him. This charge is perfectly reasonable considering the obvious fact of Mr. Payne's innocence. You have two weeks to comply with this very reasonable request, or it is my regret to inform you that another person will be assassinated, someone of much more importance I assure you."

I pressed the stop button down, not wanting to hear any more of it. The hole had reappeared before me, and now I was free falling, alone in the dark of a nightmare I could never understand nor escape. Why would the Russian Mafia, if that was what they were, want me to be released? Was it a setup so they could whack me? Something entirely different? No answers came, only more questions.

"Max...what the hell is going on?" Ibanez watched me carefully from the other side of the table, a bewildered look on his face. Was it all an act? Was he someone I could trust? Was he part of the group who was trying to organize my release? Too many questions. I slumped back in the chair, unsure of what to do or say. I started the tape again.

The voice was instantly familiar. I had heard that voice every day for a year. It was as if the ghost of Detective Winterson had risen from the grave to haunt my life. The last time I had heard her voice outside my nightmares was on a answering machine tape in Vlad's mansion. The fire had destroyed every bit of evidence connecting Winterson to Vlad, and yet here it was, Winterson pledging her love and allegiance to Vladimir Lem.

The message played through its entirety. No metaphors could explain my feelings at this point, I wasn't even sure fully what I was feeling. Ibanez didn't seem to have anything to say either, he just sat back in his chair, pondering whatever thoughts men like him pondered. For 5 minutes, we sat there, silence embracing us. Then without notice, he got up and gathered his things. He picked up the tape and put it back in the evidence baggie and set it carefully into his suitcase. He put on his jacket and said.

"Everything's going to be okay Max, I'll call you soon." With that, he turned and left, completing my isolation. A few minutes later, two officers arrived and took me back to my cell. Even with the supposed help promised by the Russian, I had never felt so alone. 


	4. Chapter 3

Jerry was still missing by the date of my first day of trial. Several newscasts had already alerted the city of his disappearance, and the NYPD had an active investigation going to try and track him down, but so far, it was as if Jerry Hart had disappeared into thin air. The thought of him disappearing being connected with the threat of the Russian was an unshakable one, and the more that I thought about it, the more realistic a possibility it became.

The judge had postponed the court hearings until some plausible evidence could be found to the whereabouts of my other lawyer, but after almost 2 weeks of filing through nonexistent evidence and trailing pointless leads, the fine detectives at the NYPD were no closer to finding him than I was to getting out of prison. After much debate and discussion, it was decided that Ibanez would be my sole attorney, and the trial would continue.

I was nothing more than a ghost at my own trial. A silent specter watching my fate being sculpted on a daily basis by both those who had known me for ages and also by those who never seen me in person before. Testimonies were given, evidence from Winterson's crime scene were passed around and scrutinized, a psychologist was even brought in from half way around the country to deliver a full report on my sanity, as if I couldn't divulge that myself. I was 100 sure that I had gone insane.

And like that, the trial was at its climax. The prosecution, a slim black man by the name of Kerry Alkins, gave his closing speech and was immediately silent. Watching him from behind the desk at which I sat, I could see the imminent look of victory in his eyes. I felt the noose closing tightly around my neck, but simply sat back in my chair and waited for it to choke the life out of me. Ibanez got up and delivered his closing speech, which was surprisingly well planned and executed. In the last few weeks, I had began to wonder Ibanez's place in this, was he really here to set up my execution, or had I been wrong about him all this long time?

The jury was given time to decide the final verdict on my fate. Ibanez and I made small talk, nothing about the trial or anything of any great importance was said between us, it was comforting. The jury took over an hour to come to a decision, but finally the pounding of the gravel could be heard from the judge, and the jury filed out and set at their respective places on the bench.

"Jury, have you reached a decision?" The judge asked callously, obviously eager to wrap this trial up. I held my breath, terribly unsure of what they would say. As much as I wanted to believe that they would look through everything and see my innocence, there was a great sinking suspicion that it would not be so.

"Yes we have, your honor," One of the jury members stood up, a piece of paper clutched firmly in his hand. He looked like an honest man, probably just another hard working, decent American, just trying to make a living. And somehow he had found himself into my nightmare.

"We find the defendant..." And somehow, in the tensest moment of my life, time slowed down. The slight pause the juror took to make sure the words printed on the sheet of paper were indeed the words he was about to speak became an eternity of silence. I almost screamed at him to say the damn words. Finally, he spoke the one word I had been waiting for almost my entire life.

"Guilty, your honor, we fend the defendant Max Payne to be guilty."

I can't really say that I was surprised by the verdict. But that didn't make it any less painful. Any and every bullet I had ever taken in the line of duty couldn't amount to the agony searing through my body at that moment. Sentencing would be held in two days. Suddenly I wished the figurative noose hanging around my neck would miraculously become real, and they would just get it over with and hang me already.


End file.
